Page 60 of The House That Held Her

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T he roar of the water dulls to a trickle, and with the onslaught of rain finally halted, the main run-off tunnel recedes by at least a couple of inches in what feels like mere seconds. One moment I’m pinned against the ceiling, convinced we’re both dead and the next I’m able to lift my head and suck in a full breath. Mount Dora’s drainage system may be old as sin—dating back to the late 1880s—but it’s incredibly effective. I nearly weep with relief as the current slackens around me.

I holler at Shannon to hold on, though she’s unconscious and can’t hear a word. I hoist her to my side, hooking my arm beneath her armpits and kicking with every bit of strength I have left. Water sluices around me, still waist-deep in places, but at least I’m not drowning. Each kick sends fire through my calf muscles, but the knowledge that this might just be enough to save us drives me forward.

Keeping my eyes peeled for that stairwell I found once before, I nearly overshoot it—the water is much higher, distorting the shape of everything around me. But I spot the dark maw off to the right and push off the tunnel floor, lifting Shannon entirely over my shoulder as I stagger up the slick, narrow steps. My teeth clack from the strain, but I don’t slow until we reach a flat, muddy patch of ground.

With shaking arms, I lower Shannon onto the slope. Her body is limp, and every second that passes stabs deeper into my chest. I clear her airway, pressing my mouth to hers and forcing precious air into her lungs. My own lungs feel shredded from near-drowning, but I keep going. I can barely speak now—my throat is ragged, my voice a desperate rasp—so I focus on the rhythmic compressions, praying with every push.

Just as my vision starts to blur from exhaustion, Shannon coughs, a splatter of dark water dribbling from her mouth. Her entire frame jolts as she turns onto her side, retching up the remains of the flood. Relief smacks me so hard I almost collapse against the stone wall. I lean over, patting her back in the most urgent, gentle way I can, my voice little more than a whisper at her ear.

“Breathe, Shannon,” I croak, my own lungs rattling. “Just breathe.”

She’s alive—but the moment I start to believe we’ve caught a break, she mumbles, barely audible: “Margot.” My heart stutters, and a new rush of panic shoots through me. If Shannon was cuffed down there, that means someone left her to die. God knows what that someone might’ve done to Margot.

I want details, want to shake Shannon until she can give me a full sentence, but she’s still half-conscious, blinking in confusion. Then I hear a deep, resonant thud echo somewhere farther down the tunnel. I turn and see faint pinpricks of light flickering—someone’s crossing in front of them from the other side of the wall.

I scramble upright, ripping Patrick’s phone from my pocket. It still glows when I snap it open—a small, blessed miracle all thanks to the Motorola brick. With trembling fingers, I wipe the screen on my sopping shirt. I punch in 911 and press the phone to my ear. After the first ring, I drop it into Shannon’s lap. “Stay here,” I tell her, or I try to—it comes out as more of a wheeze. Then, because there’s no time and my heart is thundering, I spin headlong into the darkness.